Guy Gerard Joseph Lachapelle

They say champions are born, that they never falter. Direct and to the point, great thinkers, all. Perseverance at everything, a special quality. Inner strength, they bear all that life gives them and never complain. Champions are in everyday life and they are in Heaven. They stand for us wherever they are.

Stories Mark The Day

It was his 19th birthday. He was in Special Services Training for the military. He was already a Paratrooper and fully prepared for anything. Had been a soldier for a couple of years. One by one the men plunged from the aircraft. The training was in the Arctic. One by one they landed flawlessly. Not so the rations, which were lost in the deep snow. This part of his training was for six weeks. For that length of time, they lived on canned sardines and cigarettes until the aircraft went back for them. This is one of my favorite stories he used to tell.

With bright eyes and a broad heart, he traveled the globe. Germany, Spain, France, USA, and more places than that but those were her favorites. Of all the places he went, his favorite was Spain. He always wanted to make it back there to Barcelona. He fought in the Korean War, migrated upwards through the forces, and saved lives. He watched his friends die in the field and had nightmares for life about it. The boy became a man and in his elder years he's talk in his sleep, "hey young soldier, what regiment are you from?" He was a soldier and a gentleman.

The Life of Guy

The military gave him a career, a life. He grew up unashamed of being poor, in a large, French Canadian Catholic family. His grandparents were fortunate to be wealthy prior to the stock market crash. After that, they were one of the minions where a karmic frisbee turned them on the path of struggle. Ten children in his family, he chuckled when telling us how his mother gave their Christmas gifts to a new family in the neighborhood who were worse off than them one year. So they had dinner and went without new socks for the winter. Life goes on when you don't know any other way to live. His first job was at a bakery, making bread when he was about 12 years old. He did this for a few years. School then was non-essential, and living and the basics were important.

So he joined the army later as a teenager. It was there he got to have an education and travel the world. He had a photo album of priceless army photos that I helped put together in a classic leather-bound album that he got especially for that purpose. Someone actually stole it out of the house, I don't think he got over that. That someone would steal such a thing. Hope you're a collector out there whoever it was because if we ever catch up with you, you will wish you were.

He was a boxer in the army also, of which he was very proud. For recreation, there were boxing matches and he was in all of them until he had a broken arm injury in the service and couldn't anymore. Tough as nails, I don't think he was ever sick a day of his life until the last couple of years. At 88 years old he was clear-minded as the hand in front of your face, agile and fit, read newspapers and did crosswords daily, and followed politics like no tomorrow. Still driving, and insisted on making his own meals.

The Love of Life

My mother worked in an office as a secretary. Wanting to branch out from her small hometown of maybe 100 people and see the world, she applied for a temporary job as a nanny in Ontario. Little did she know it would be a life-changing adventure. She lived with and watched the children for my Aunt Reina and Uncle Albert. There she first met my father who was visiting his brother's family when on a weekend break from the army. Canada's Matt Damon and Gina Lollobrigida, I used to tease them, looking at the photo albums. So he courted her and visited her when he could. They were madly in love from the start.

My Second Favorite Story

How he proposed to my mother. The temp job was completed and my mother returned to the little house in her hometown. In the midst of a blizzard, she and her seven smaller siblings noticed the shine of headlights through the snow falling. Who would that be? There, my father in grand fashion appeared with no winter coat and wearing a formal tuxedo. He had driven across three provinces and a snowstorm to propose. Flowers in his hand she opened the door and he asked for her hand in marriage. My mother told me this story in such a joyous way we were teary-eyed and giggling at the youthful enthusiasm of the stern and proper man's man.

He was already in his early 30's by the time he was married and had children. After nine years in the army, he decided he didn't want to be in the services with a family. He worked for a few years at other jobs and then began in the skilled trades that were starting to be hugely popular then. Working in the oil refineries was a great living. Journeymen were making around 30 dollars per hour back in the 90's. We weren't spoiled but we never went without. I grew up with a strong work ethic knowing how hard my father worked for us, he was always working and never complained. Mother also ran the CWL for all of Ontario, volunteered at the schools, you could eat off the floors and she made everything appear and smooth and perfect without effort. Everything my parents did was perfect.

His life experience shaped the man with so much character. You have to know the French Canadian culture. Unbiased, I will say it is one with the authentic distinction of Canadiana customs and manners. Gentlemen and ladies, all. Of course, all cultures have that but that is my foremost impression from my upbringing. There was a correct way of doing things and respect was a given.

We were raised without using the words, "ugly," "hate," or "shut-up." When we were in our family household those words were never allowed. It set a standard for living. Of course, a stream of french cussing would be relevant on some occasions but we never knew what it meant. My parent never argued. Or if they did, they did so behind closed doors because we never heard them. People just didn't do that. The first time I heard people argue when I was an adult, I was practically traumatized because it was so unfamiliar. That early instilling of calm and not needing conflict set the tone for me far into the future when navigating my own life. It gives resilience.

We grew up, and life changed as we did, along with the times. Dad didn't. He stayed the same. Stern at times on the outside with a big intellect and a big heart. He had his interests and loved politics and music and one-to-one conversation. One of my best memories is the big stereo that was always playing and his collection of albums, from Elvis to Buddy Holly to everything Country, when we were small music was on more than television.

Treat nights were on the weekend when if it wasn't out for ice cream he would bring us home each a snack and pop. Rides to movies, lectures about friends, strict rules when we were teenagers, advice, and mostly a caring attitude. He worked a lot but was always there. If there was ever anything I needed he was always there, a ride to my first huge art exhibit? Without hesitating, he packed up the artwork in the car and drove to Toronto and there was no dad prouder to. Many years later when there was no work and pension checks got smaller, life became slim pickings. So I went back to school for my second post-graduate certificate and when I graduated he and I celebrated with a five-dollar frozen pizza and it was the best ever. How his eyes shone, "you should be proud of yourself," and I beamed.

I could fill a book with all the good memories: teaching me how to ride a bike for the first time, the wind in my hair I was so impressed with myself thinking I was doing great without the training wheels but then I turned my head and he was right behind me running along balancing the bike for me. Or the first time he taught me how to drive in the parking lot of Lambton College and my two younger brothers in the back seat of the car in fits of uncontrollable laughter every time the car lurched when I hit the brakes and dad's flurry of french words. Tons of memories like that. Maybe I should write that memoir.

Maybe I was "daddy's girl," and who cares. Two peas in a pod, my mother would say and in many ways we were, the quiet thinkers.

If wasn't for him I don't know where I would be today, truly. He always encouraged me all the years I was in school and absolutely loved my spouse of 13 years who passed away at 37. That same year the government slashed all the employment services where I worked as an employment counselor and I was out of not only a job but an entire career. Shortly thereafter of course, I lost the house. Again, Dad didn't blink an eye, "move in here." So I did with my pets and meager belongings. We were great company for each other. We could sit in the same room and not say a word and be comfortable. He would make me laugh time and again with his outward comments. He had his space and I had my space. We had a simple life together and if it wasn't for him I would have been homeless. So I am eternally grateful. He will always be my champion.

He broke his other hip at 89 years old, tripping on the front porch. Normally surgery is not done after 80-85 because the bones get soft and don't heal the same but they did give him the surgery and it later exacerbated his osteoporosis. The anesthetic can also actually cause medically-induced dementia that can take up to two years to recover from. I never imagined I would be caring for him as a senior but I did not hesitate to for two years. He wanted to stay at home and never go to a nursing home and that is the arrangement he believed that he had left. Sometimes seniors go in and out of the hospital for little ailments and to get better, "spruced up and home again in a month or two," the nurse said. He was so happy on the phone months later to say, "I'm coming home tomorrow." Excited I started to meal plan for his new soft diet, to get his favorites (he had mild dementia and in a wheelchair for his osteoporosis), only to be greatly disappointed to find out the next day that he was being sent to a nursing home. He was absolutely heartbroken and irate. I will quietly say to anyone reading this - if your loved one wants to stay at home until they are at death's door, then do as they wish it's called respect. As a Rec Therapist who did my internship in a nursing home, if they can feed themselves, dress themselves, and follow a conversation, they don't need to be there. Somehow he broke his leg while in the nursing home and became septic. The great champion, Korean war hero, and father, passed away of a broken leg. I may never forgive myself for not making them bring him home. I will live with that. God calls us home when He says and everyone has their time I guess.

With class and charm, wit and distinction, a true survivor that taught me well, was my father. It's a little over a year since he has been gone. The ache in my heart to refer to him in the past tense is almost unbearable, still. Yet I know he would not like that. A firm outlook, a tough demeanor, and he had the biggest heart. Everyone thinks they had the best father but I know mine was too.

I have seen him in my dreams. It was like he was forewarning me of something special to happen. Also, telling me "I have seen the whole world from up here." Gentle waves and happy smiles of his family and he together. He was the last survivor of his family. We will never know as great a generation as the Baby Boomers, they are a class unto themselves. Until we meet again dad, forever in my heart, every day is Father's Day.

In the last couple of years, I put his bed in the living room so he could watch TV, his favorite past-time. We spent many hours watching Murdoch Mysteries, Star Trek and CBC News. I slept in the lazy boy next to him in case he wanted anything in the night. He would gently say, "hold my hand, before I fall asleep," and I would. "Don't you cry, never cry in here," he said, and I won't.

The story would not be complete without the cherished song he used to sing after he had a few beers. My mother would never allow him to sing the whole thing in front of us 4 kids, now years later I know why (giggle). It's an old army song the army boys sang for fun, here complete with lyrics. Another favorite memory is him cascading down the hospital hallway in a wheelchair after being medicated for the hip he just broke and singing this song out at the top of his lungs. Big smiles here.

Away, away, with fyfe and drum,

Here we go, full of rum,

Looking for women that peddle their bum

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The firefighters have lots of fire,

They never, never seem to tire

Of pulling their hose, and pulling their wire

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The service police are a bunch of sluts,

They should be hung up by their nuts,

A bunch of hicks from out of the sticks

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

Into the mess we go to sup,

A dirty plate, a dirty cup,

The cooks should fucking well smarten up

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The wireless boys they fly so high,

I wish to hell that they would die,

Their da da dits give us the shits

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

When we were ten miles out to sea

The Pilot started buggery

His only joy was the wireless boy

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The One Six One crew Number Four,

Went out one night to find a whore;

Their only hope was a nanny goat

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

When in Vera Cruz we touched,

We found that Kingston whores were such,

That when open wide you could put inside

The North Atlantic Squadron.

In Newfoundland when it got hot,

We used to fornicate a lot,

Only the fools would be pulling their tools

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The girls are all misfits,

They have no teeth, they have no tits,

No wonder they give us the shits

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The sergeants they are on the bit,

Giving the ACs lots of shit.

After the war their throats we'll slit

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

In Gaspe it rained all the time,

The sun was never known to shine,

The fog was so thick you could set it in bricks

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The officers they know fuck all,

As up the CO's arse they crawl.

What do they get but sweet fuck all

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The civvies in the Ferry Command

Are always jerking off by hand.

They're the fucking scourge of this fair land

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The Ferry Command from Montreal,

What do they bring but sweet fuck all.

Whatever the date, they're always late

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The American boys we do admire,

They fly through shit and snow and fire,

They never never seem to tire

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

By Ottawa we're really stumped,

You know they are a bunch of cunts;

Their nuts should be nailed to the nearest stump

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

If I had a girl and she were mine

Upon her arse I'd paint a sign-

"Try this for size, it's really fine"

In the North Atlantic Squadron

The works and bricks are a bunch of pricks,

They feed the fire with wood and sticks;

They leave us all in a hell of a fix

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The Northern Electric put up poles;

They should be shoved up their arseholes.

They stay inside when it is cold

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The medical corps are a bunch of whores,

They should be hung up by their drawers.

They give you pills and you shit for hours

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The fucking discips give us the pips,

All of them are full of shit.

From arsehole to breakfast they should be slit

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The dear old WAAFs, I hope they'll come,

And then we'll pat them on the bum;

And in the bushes our work will be done

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

There was a girl from Montreal,

She spread her legs from wall to wall.

With every jump I made her call

For the North Atlantic Squadron.

The RAF are on the bit,

Giving Hitler lots of shit,

And after the war they'll talk about it

And the North Atlantic Squadron.

In Labrador we used to sit,

In the mess and shoot the shit,

With fuckall to do but swallow it

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The boys from stores went out to piss,

Their streams and spray they went amiss-

They said that they could drown with this

The North Atlantic Squadron.

Those MT men are reckless birds,

They roar around like crazy turds.

They smash up trucks with very few words

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The girls of Gaspe town are bags,

They always seem to wear their rags;

And if they don't, their pussy sags

From the North Atlantic Squadron.

A lazy crowd are the bastard clerks,

They piss around like a bunch of jerks.

They fuck around but they never work

In the North Atlantic Squadron.

The aircrew boys they all had chills,

They took some green artillery pills;

They shit from Yarmouth to Gander Hills

In the North Atlantic Squadron

More of Lachapelle's work HERE.

~/\~

Copyright © 2022 Lisa A Lachapelle. All rights reserved.

Leave a tip or a pledge if you wish to and I in turn will wish for you.

If you would like to be updated on all my writing just sign in to Vocal for free and click Subscribe on my work. Or brighten my day with an email canuckscribe@gmail